


so the story goes

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, let's not even PRETEND this is anything but fluff, well more like fake/pretend non!stop!physical!contact relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:42:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole thing had really started with Jasper.</p><p>Or, the one where Jasper is an incorrigible, instigating manchild with an incurable penchant for nicknames, and Bellamy and Clarke find that they're not totally uncomfortable with constant physical contact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so the story goes

**Author's Note:**

> i'm starting to see a pattern with the length of my oneshots. 
> 
> nonetheless, enjoy!
> 
> (title from '1999' by Active Child)

 

 

In Clarke’s defense, she never thought a hug could ever be classified as a gateway drug in any universe.

 

But then again, she also never thought she’d ever be straddling the lap of one Bellamy Blake, lips glued to his, her hands buried in his thick, dark curls while his wrapped around her waist and back, pressing her against him as fully as he could.

 

 

 

The whole thing had really started with Jasper.

 

Jasper Jordan had always been what some people might delicately call “easily excitable”. The boy had a seemingly insatiable thirst for excitement, coupled with an uncanny knack for getting himself and his friends into trouble with his unfortunate penchant for seeking to create his own entertainment when traditional forms failed or bored him (which was all too often, as a forlorn Monty Green is wont to assent, his tone of lament betrayed only by the cheeky glint in his eye).

 

The fireworks in a jar debacle — “ _Trust_ me, guys, this is gonna _change_ the _world_ for _all eternity_ ” — had ended with Miller being forced to wear his beanie a good deal lower on his forehead for one full month while his eyebrows grew back. Raven, in particular, had thoroughly enjoyed Miller’s woeful plight, wasting no time in inventing a host of brow-related digs and making sure to seize every opportunity to tug at the boy’s beanie. The brunette had put on an especially big show of presenting him with shiny new knitting needles and no less than twelve balls of bright coloured yarn for his birthday that year, along with the cheerful suggestion that he “might as well switch it up, ya big baby”. (To this day, Clarke still marvels at the ridiculously miraculous survival of Miller’s facial hair.)

 

Jasper had taken to his self-adopted role of group instigator all too readily, creating endless group chats for numerous borderline insane reasons ( _“ok everyone say red if u’re more beatles & blue if u’re more elvis”_), coming up with one nonsensical group tradition after another for everyone to try to keep track of (“We _have_ to eat pie, it’s _Pi Day_!”) and constantly looking up new activities for everyone to “bond” over (“It’s not that hard to understand — I give y’all a bunch of clues, you guys have to solve them to find the key and escape the room!”).

 

One of his apparent duties was to constantly attempt new nicknames and labels for everyone in the group. “Asian Invasion” had lasted about five days, mostly due to Monty’s flat out refusal to respond. “New Spice” had enjoyed significantly more success — mostly because everyone had assumed he had been likening Miller to Isaiah Mustafa rather than the British pop group. “Lincy’s wifey” had endured all of four seconds before Octavia’s chokehold had forced Jasper to tap out, reddened face gasping for air as long arms flailed uselessly from the restraints of the petite brunette’s slender arms. Following that, the boy had taken care to exercise some unexpected wisdom when the two officially coupled up, refraining from repeating the nickname in front of the pair once Lincoln became a regular at group affairs. (Monty had sworn Clarke to absolute secrecy before showing her Octavia’s contact name, as saved on a passed-out Jasper’s phone.)

 

It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Jasper’s latest brilliant nickname idea hadn’t been a nickname at all — it was a twin attack.

 

The double attack was first launched the night the group met Kyle Wick. He’d walked into the bar — _their_ bar — and right up to their table, grinning directly at Raven as he delivered a teasing jibe with no preamble. The seemingly innocuous greeting had had the rest of the group shutting up in surprise as the brunette actually flushed pink. Rolling her eyes, she’d then introduced him offhandedly as “Wickhead Dickhead, the most annoying engineer of life”. As if that hadn’t been enough to set Jasper Jordan off, the affable blond had merely smiled disarmingly, reached out to rest a hand on the back of the mechanic steadily avoiding his gaze and said, “I think you’re mispronouncing ‘charming and dashing’, _wrench monkey_.”

 

Thankfully, Wick had then spotted a couple friends at a table on the other end, politely taking his leave before he could witness a fit of Jordan excitement. Raven had endured ten or so minutes of Jasper’s unquenchable enthusiasm for the new nickname before abruptly proclaiming a need to get an early night’s rest and taking her own leave from the bar.

 

A sudden brevity had descended upon the table as everyone turned to look at the shaggy-haired boy, still guffawing “ _wrench monkey”_ in between gulps of his drink. He’d paused, mouth half full of beer as he took in the pointed stares fixed on him. “What?”

 

Clarke had sighed, leaning forward to prop her elbows on the table as her clear blue eyes held confused brown ones. “Jasper, how many times have we told you? You can’t embarrass people like that with your weird labelling obsession.”

 

Jasper started, drops of beer splashing over the edge of his glass. “Wha—”

  
“Raven and Wick obviously aren’t _just_ co-workers, Jas,” Bellamy pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest. “It wasn’t very nice to keep rubbing the whole ‘wrench monkey’ thing in her face when she was clearly uncomfortable.”

 

Jasper had cast incredulous glances around the table, but was met only with nods and murmured assents. Octavia and Lincoln’s absence had meant that he was spared from the younger Blake’s sharp tongue and piercing glare, but Monty and Miller’s shaking heads of disappointment had been more than enough to significantly dampen his buoyant mood.

 

“Oh, come on!” he’d complained, pushing at his beer petulantly. “He called her wrench monkey! _Wrench monkey_! _Raven_! You can’t tell me that wasn’t funny!”

 

“We’re not saying it wasn’t,” Clarke had said, her low voice firm despite the softening in the sharp blue of her eyes. “We’re just saying, it wouldn’t hurt to learn to — you know — _time_ your shit.”

 

Bellamy had nodded, arms shifting over his chest. “Especially with Raven — you know how much her pride matters to her.”

 

Jasper had then slumped back against the booth as Miller laughed heartily and clapped a firm hand on his back. “Alright, jeez, I got it — _sorry, Mom and Dad_.”

 

Monty and Miller’s muted gasps had been painfully audible in the momentary silence that followed.

 

Twin frowns had appeared on Bellamy and Clarke’s faces.

 

“Did you just—”

 

“ _Right_ when we told you—”

 

“Mom and _Dad_?”

 

Jasper had shrugged as a mischievous grin slowly re-emerged across his boyish features. “What? That’s not insensitive or anything, is it?”

 

Clarke had blinked, arms unfolding as she leaned back in her seat. “Well. No.”

 

Monty and Miller had gaped silently at the pair.

 

Bellamy had shaken his head slightly, refocusing his stern glare on the human headache in front of them. “Look, the point is, we think before we speak. Right?”

 

“Right. Thanks, _Dad_.” The grin on Jasper’s face had turned all the way up to Cheshire level at Clarke's exasperated huff, accompanied by the deep, drawn-out groans of an aggravated Bellamy Blake.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Clarke should _really_ have known Jasper wouldn’t have let it end there.

 

Beginning with the repeated greetings of “Hey, Mom and Dad are here!”, she had eventually all but given up on rolling her eyes whenever she got within six feet of Jasper purely for the sake of her own optic nerves. She’d soon stopped replying the all-too-frequent texts of _“good morning, Mom!”_ that came in anywhere from four-thirty in the morning to lunchtime, after the fifth variation of _“jasper, please stop”_ had evidently failed to get through to him. She’d even started getting used to tuning out the bright, cheeky grin that flashed up on the boy's face whenever an opportunity was spotted to call her and Bellamy out on their admittedly parent-like displays of concern, disapproval or pride towards one of their close-knit group.

 

But if she had to pick a specific point in time where things had truly gotten out of hand, it would definitely have been the day Octavia and Lincoln returned from their twelve-day camping-slash-hiking trip with friends from the martial arts gym they frequented.

 

Octavia had been laid out on the couch when Clarke hurried in, Lincoln gently undoing bandages wrapped around her right thigh.

 

“Octavia, are you okay?” Clarke had managed to get out before engulfing the petite brunette in a tight hug.

 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” Octavia had answered as the blonde pulled away, wincing slightly as her boyfriend returned to his task. A caustic bark of laughter had escaped her smiling mouth. “Figures, twelve days of romping around in the wilderness, and it waits till the last day to get me.”

 

Clarke had knelt beside the couch, one hand on her friend’s shoulder as the other found one of Octavia’s. “What happened?”

 

“Turns out sharp rocks and slippery trails aren’t such a great combo after all,” Octavia had shrugged, eyes still sparkling with her signature bright energy despite the slight flashes of discomfort streaking across her lovely face. “Who knew?”

 

“We cleaned the wound as best as we could,” Lincoln had spoken up as he slowly peeled the last of the bandages away from torn flesh — clean, neat bandages, Clarke had noted. He’d been well prepared. “She didn’t want to go to a doctor unless she absolutely had to—” Clarke had registered the unmistakable tone of disapproval in his voice, “—so we thought we’d at least get someone with more medical experience than me to take a look before anything else.”

 

Clarke had then turned her attention on the wound. There had been a rough slash on the outer side of Octavia’s slender thigh, about six or seven inches long. It hadn’t been thin, exactly — an observation that had made Clarke grimace slightly. Nevertheless, it’d been a relatively clean, shallow cut, one uninterrupted line of red running down her leg. The bleeding had long stopped by then, and Clarke had felt relief blossom in her chest, thankful that the injury hadn’t been more serious.

 

“Well, I’m no doctor,” Clarke had sighed, “but that doesn’t look too bad at all. That was some great first aid work,” she’d added, glancing at Lincoln, who had accepted her praise with a nod, eyes still fixed on the wound as if he could make it disappear by sheer willpower alone. Clarke cleared her throat, averting her gaze to meet Octavia’s. “But just to be safe, how about we clean that leg out once more, and then we can wrap it back up and call it a day.”

 

Octavia had nodded gratefully. “Sounds great.”

 

Clarke had been almost done wrapping a fresh bandage around Octavia’s leg when Bellamy had burst in, still in his uniform, a slight sheen of sweat reflecting off his forehead.

 

“O,” he’d breathed as his eyes found his sister, before three large strides had taken him to her side, enveloping her in a fierce hug that was returned as best as could be in Octavia’s sideways position on the couch.

 

“God, Bell, missed you so much,” Octavia had laughed before he reluctantly released her. “Look, before you start freaking out, I’m _fine_ , alright? Just a tiny little accident.”

 

His disbelieving eyes had landed on Clarke, still bent over his sister’s leg as she finished off the wrappings. “Little bit of a cut, nothing you Blakes aren’t built to handle.” She leaned back on her heels, lifting her clear gaze to meet his deeply furrowed one. “She’s fine.”

 

Just then, Lincoln had returned from putting away the first aid kit. Bellamy’s head had whipped up, eyes widening slightly as he bristled — telltale signs of an impending Blake outburst.

 

“Thank God Lincoln was there,” Clarke had continued, maintaining her tone of casual calm as she’d risen to her feet, inching a step closer to Bellamy as she watched him to make sure he was listening. “If he hadn’t cleaned and wrapped up her leg as well as he did, there’s a pretty good chance it would’ve have gotten infected on the way back.”

 

Clarke had glanced at Octavia quickly, nodding slightly at the gratitude in her friend’s eyes. Bellamy’s shoulders had relaxed slightly, and he’d shifted his weight while continuing to stare at his little sister’s boyfriend.

 

“Er—” he’d cleared his throat gruffly, “—thanks. For taking care of her.”

 

“Of course,” Lincoln had returned carefully, moving forward. The two men had continued to regard each other for a few silent seconds, before Octavia huffed and threw her hands up in the air.

 

“God, just _kiss_ already! Can everyone relax now that we’re sure I’m okay?!”

 

 

 

Later that night, Octavia had relayed the story to their friends over drinks to celebrate the couple’s return from their getaway. Several laughs were shared at Bellamy’s expense, mostly due to Octavia’s exaggerated descriptions of the way he’d “pulled up on his haunches” when he’d thought he “finally had an excuse to knock Lincoln’s lights out”. Bellamy’s protective streak had never been news to the group, but it was always thrown into overdrive whenever it came to his little sister, a fact that never failed to attract affectionate teases and jibes from those closest to him.

 

“I mean, if it hadn’t been for Clarke,” Octavia had laughed, leaning into Lincoln’s side, “Bell would have probably lost it right then and there. Shoot first, ask questions later, eh, officer?” She’d grinned affectionately across the table at the wry smile on her brother’s face.

 

“Typical Dad,” Jasper had called loudly, raising his drink in Bellamy’s direction. “But let’s hear it for Mom, eh! Woman of the hour!”

 

A crease had formed between Octavia’s brows as her gaze darted between her brother and best friend before returning to fix on Jasper. “Say what?”

 

Raven had rolled her eyes, leaning over the table. “Jasper’s latest ingenious label. Pay no mind.”

 

“Hey, no, come on!” Jasper had turned on the dismissive brunette as she refilled her glass. “Even you can’t tell me that wasn’t totally Mom-and-Dad of them, Reyes!”

 

Miller had shrugged as he snagged a couple fries from the giant basket in the middle of the table. “It kinda _sounded_ especially parent-y.” He’d popped the potato sticks into his mouth, grinning unapologetically at his best friend’s indignation. Beside him, Monty had nodded sympathetically at Clarke’s exasperated expression.

 

Raven had then tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder before thrusting her own glass into the air. “Well, when you’re right, you’re right. To Mom and Dad!”

 

“Mom and Dad!” the rest had echoed, raising their glasses as Octavia keeled right into Lincoln’s lap, overtaken by peal after peal of laughter. Bellamy’s head had fallen back as Clarke’s fell forward, two longsuffering groans resounding amidst the raucous cheers and clinks.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

In all honesty, the thought of retaliation had never even crossed Clarke’s mind — that is, not until Jasper managed to get the rest of the group on board with the constant “Mom-and-Dad”-ing. From then on, things had only spiralled further and further out of control, beginning with the way the group were suddenly physically incapable of occupying a table without somehow managing to leave spaces for Bellamy and Clarke that just _happened_ to be right beside each other, or how teaming up for games, drinking or otherwise, always ended up Bellamy-and-Clarke versus everyone else.

 

Another week in, and Miller had accidentally called Bellamy “Dad” in the precinct break room, instantly attracting the confused stares of everyone present. “In front of fucking _Murphy_ , too,” Bellamy had complained, rubbing a palm over his forehead as Raven slapped Miller on the back — more to keep herself upright through a fit of voracious laughter than anything.

 

The following Sunday, Clarke had run into one of her studio co-workers at a bazaar by the river, and introduced her to the group out of courtesy. Jasper had pushed his way to the front, seized a bewildered Maya’s hand and proclaimed, “Jasper Jordan, resident bad boy. Mom won’t tell you herself, but I’m her favourite.”

 

Come Monday, Clarke had had some explaining to do to the rest of the studio staff, snickering behind their palms at her embarrassment.

 

 

 

Things finally came to a head when Bellamy and Miller were officially promoted to detective. Jasper had decided that it was high time the group went out to a proper restaurant for dinner to celebrate.

 

 _“friday night reservation confirmed! tt means dresses & collars, folks!” _his text had read. _“ & miller no fkin beanies pls 4 é love of God.”_

Come Friday, Clarke had received texts from both Octavia and Monty cancelling their requests for rides. She had then texted the group, asking if anyone else needed a lift in case the other designated driver, Raven, wasn’t able to come through. Only Jasper had responded — _“no tks mom”_ , followed by three frankly ridiculous variations of winking emoticons. Clarke had driven straight to the restaurant and walked through the doors to find a lone Bellamy Blake in front of the hostess’ stand, raking a hand through his hair impatiently.

 

“What?” she’d asked instantly, catching the apologetic smile the hostess was directing towards them both.

 

He’d tugged at the collar of his navy button-down, shifting his jacket from one arm to the other. “Apparently, there’s been some _misunderstanding_ with our reservation,” he’d grimaced through a clenched jaw.

 

“I do have a booking under ‘Jordan’ here,” the hostess had chimed in brightly. “However, it’s a table for two, not eight.” She’d glanced at Bellamy cautiously, professional megawatt smile still in place. “As I understand it, this is the original reservation as made on Monday.”

 

Clarke’s gaze had met Bellamy’s. “They didn’t.”

 

“They better not have,” he’d agreed through the clenching of his jaw. “But I think they did.”

 

Clarke had released an exasperated breath, immediately drawing in another as she considered their options. Somehow, running around town trying to track Jasper Jordan down hadn’t seemed like a particularly appealing activity for her Friday night, not after the time and effort spent getting dressed up and _especially_ not after having suffered what felt like at least a third degree burn from her curling iron. She’d sighed heavily, brushing her bangs out of her face. “Well, I’m in if you are.” She grinned as he froze, widened eyes fixed on her. “Been wanting to try this place for a while now anyway.”

 

He’d blinked then, straightening slightly as he cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay. ‘Jordan’, then,” he’d added to the hostess, already tucking two menus into the crook of her elbow. “Table for two,” he’d finished ruefully, glancing down at Clarke as she rolled her eyes with a smile.

 

“Right this way,” the hostess had beamed, gesturing with a welcoming arm.

 

They’d spent most of dinner heatedly debating the best way to kill Jasper, followed by each of their friends, one by one. Bellamy’s brief speech propagating the benefits of throttling over shooting had had her on the verge of laughter, head cocked to the side as she grinned widely at his enthusiasm. Once he’d got to “plus you can’t top the pleasure of watching the life drain from his big eyes, _up close_ ”, he had successfully managed to attract more than a few sharply concerned glances, particularly from the elderly couple at the next table.

 

Clarke had instantly dissolved into muffled giggles at his sheepish embarrassment, shoulders quivering with the sheer effort of trying to restrain her amusement within the realm of relative silence. She’d then loudly cleared her throat, sat up straight in her chair and responded loud enough for their neighbours to hear, “Well, I’d have that if I shot him in the gut at really, _really_ close range”, biting back the grin that threatened to reappear at Bellamy’s splutter of disbelief and hastily quashed laughter.

 

After swooning far too dramatically over the chocolate ganache they’d decided to split, Bellamy had downed the last of his second glass of wine as Clarke polished off the last of their dessert.

 

“I’ll tell you what, though,” he’d started, setting his empty glass down with a shake of his head. “Four weeks of Jasper’s shit is about all I can take.”

 

Clarke had hummed in emphatic agreement, savouring the last of the decadent, bittersweet creaminess on her tongue. She’d then set her fork down, brows furrowing together as her hand curved around her nearly empty water glass. “You know what? I say it’s high time we start giving as good as we’ve been getting.”

 

He’d raised a dark brow, one hand nudging his still full glass of water towards her. “What do you mean?”

 

She’d brought the proffered glass to her lips, smirking over the rim at his confusion. “I _mean_ — Jasper and his merry band of Judases need to learn you can’t mess with people without expecting to get messed with.” She’d sipped at the water, grinning as understanding quickly dawned on his face.

 

He’d leaned forward, deep brown eyes fixed on her sparkling blues as a smirk appeared to match hers. “What’d you have in mind, princess?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

In retrospect, Clarke should definitely have questioned how _easy_ it had been for her and Bellamy to slip into the roles devised over splitting the check and gleefully detailed over the drive back and various text message exchanges over the next day — not that it wasn’t _normal_ for them to find they worked well together, she reflected ruefully.

 

Sunday’s schedule had already been fully planned out over the course of the week. Octavia’s soccer girls were having a bake sale to raise funds for new uniforms and equipment, and everyone was to assemble at the apartment she shared with Raven to help with mixing and measuring and piping icing.

 

Clarke had turned up right on time to find Octavia and Lincoln unpacking large grocery bags of supplies on the large island in the centre of the kitchen. Raven was leaned over on the opposite end, propped up by her elbows as she finished off some story or other, the smile on her face marred slightly by the crease in her forehead that appeared every time she glanced down at her phone. Clarke had handed off the bag of assorted cupcake baking trays and pans to Octavia — a generous loan from Maya — and immediately set about helping to lay out flour and butter and sugar in more accessible bowls.

 

The doorbell had rung then, prompting her to glance curiously at Octavia and Raven, but the latter had already disappeared from the kitchen even as Octavia smirked knowingly after her. All confusion was immediately cleared when Raven had re-entered the room, followed closely by a tall, scruffy blond sporting an amiable grin.

 

“Clarke, you remember Wick,” Raven had gestured vaguely, not really meeting her friend’s amused gaze.

 

“Yeah, of course,” Clarke had smiled, reaching out to shake the hand held out to her. “Great to meet you again, Wick. Have you gotten roped into Octavia’s baking army?”

 

“Kind of,” he’d answered cheerfully, stepping back to stand beside the brunette already rolling her eyes. “That, and there’s no hiding my philanthropic weakness for high school sports teams from Raven.”

 

“Everyone should be useful at _some_ point in their lives,” the girl in question had scoffed, and the two had immediately set off on a boisterous argument that had their spectators exchanging smug smiles and glances.

 

Monty, Jasper and Miller had soon arrived, spilling through the door with no regard for knocking or ringing the bell, and were immediately put to work washing the baking trays and pans, drying them and filling them out with the paper liners Octavia had shoved at them over Jasper’s complaints that he was there solely on “tasting duty”. Monty had gotten extremely overexcited at the presence of a fellow engineer, quizzing Wick nonstop on his work projects as Raven snidely interjected with a few choice remarks.

 

By the time Bellamy had showed up, thirty minutes late and toting a small plastic bag, the group had begun to branch out around the island and counter, setting up little stations for mixing and measuring. He’d strode straight up to Octavia, handing her the plastic bag with the announcement “There, you got your damn vanilla, alright”, wrapping an arm around her as she reached up to press a light kiss to his cheek. That had been normal. It was the way the Blakes usually greeted each other.

 

What _hadn’t_ been normal, however, was the beeline Bellamy made for Clarke the minute his sister stepped away, coming up beside the blonde as she was preoccupied with measuring sugar into a large bowl. He’d then wrapped the same arm around her shoulders and squeezed her to him as he bent to press his lips to her temple.

 

What _hadn’t_ been normal was the way Clarke leaned easily into the side hug and accepted — nay, _welcomed_ the chaste kiss of greeting without comment, all while continuing her conversation with Lincoln as if her conversation partner and the rest of the room occupants weren’t openly gaping at her and the man whose side she was currently tucked into.

 

What _definitely_ hadn’t been normal was the pair’s seeming inability to stray more than three feet from each other for the rest of the afternoon, playfully flicking little clouds of flour at each other, fetching each other glasses of water and bottles of beer, making a game of tossing M&Ms into each other’s mouths, smiling and laughing and teasing and nudging and bumping and elbowing each other _the_ _entire time_.

 

 _That_ was not fucking _normal_.

 

That little glance Bellamy had thrown her around a bite of cupcake from the batch the Octavia had set aside for the group to celebrate their culinary success, the side of his mouth pulled up lopsidedly while the corners of his eyes crinkled in conspiratorial amusement — _that_ was normal. That was them. That, she could respond to without pretense, without being mindful to exaggerate or dramatise.

 

Why, then, had she felt heat blooming within her chest, flooding upwards across her neck and face as she'd grinned at him from behind her own cupcake?

 

 

 

“Because it’s not _normal_ , that’s why,” Raven had persisted as they wandered through a store a week later, forgetting to put out a hand to at least give the appearance of looking at clothes as she stayed right on Clarke’s heels.

 

Clarke had sighed, fingers absently brushing over a green sheath dress. “What’s not normal, Raven?”

 

“You. Him. The constant—” the brunette had waggled her fingers and waved her hands in small circles in front of her as her features contorted in an attempt to express herself. Clarke had raised a brow, still holding up the green dress. Raven had huffed and thrown her hands up in the air. “You _know_ what I mean.”

 

Clarke had laughed lightly, turning to move to the next rack. “I don’t think anyone knows what _that_ means.”

 

Raven had groaned, shoulders slumping as she trailed after the blonde, casting her eyes over the rack as she rifled half-heartedly through it. “Come on, babe, you know I’ve been exhausted as hell. Fucking Wick makes work about twelve times more taxing than it needs to be. Damn chemical engineers.”

 

Clarke had shrugged innocuously, pulling out a strawberry red number with an empire waist. “Well maybe you should wait till after work to fuck him, then.”

 

She’d bit back the smile that had swelled up at Raven’s overly indignant jaw-drop, accompanied by the delayed, half-stuttered admonishment of _“Clarke… Griffin!”_ and thrust a wine-coloured bodycon dress at her temporarily stunned friend.

 

“Here, try this on,” she’d ordered, turning back to the rack to pick through more hangers.

 

“Fine,” Raven had grumbled, pivoting slowly towards the changing rooms before executing a sudden about-turn, a devilish grin splashed across her face. “ _Mom._ ”

 

She’d skipped off cheerily, blithely ignoring the blonde’s exasperated groan.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Looking back, Clarke should probably have thought to ask Bellamy where the end of their little scheme lay. In all honesty, discussing the matter had never even occurred to her. By the second week, the group had ceased breaking conversations just to stare at Bellamy as he stretched out an arm along the back of Clarke’s chair at every meal or round of drinks. There were no more double takes whenever Clarke’s hand latched onto Bellamy’s arm as they walked, to be removed only when said arm shifted to wrap around her shoulders, firmly securing her to him. No more jaws dropped when Bellamy wrapped an arm around Clarke in greeting or farewell, or when her head found a resting place on his shoulder during lazy weekend movie marathons.

 

In fact, aside from Jasper’s muffled half-whimper when Clarke perched herself on the arm of Bellamy’s chair to “help him out with Scrabble”, there hadn’t really been much of a reaction from the group after that first week or so — which was why she hadn’t bothered to change seats for the rest of the night.

 

It had been nearly three weeks into their little performance when the thought suddenly crossed her mind. She and Bellamy had volunteered to do the dishes as thanks to Lincoln and Octavia for the scrumptious dinner while the rest of the group retreated into the living room, Monty going straight for the remotes while Jasper pulled DVD after DVD out of a backpack. Raven and Wick had still been heatedly bickering over which _Mission: Impossible_ was best, enthusiastically egged on by an enraptured Miller. (Raven’s argument of _“Well you’re in my house so there’s really no ground for you to stand on here, Wick”_ hadn’t gone over as successfully as she had apparently hoped, much to their spectator’s delight.)

 

Bellamy and Clarke had stood at the sink, shoulders brushing and water droplets flying, short bursts of jovial laughter occasionally sounding out as they took turns elbowing each other playfully. Lincoln and Octavia had brought in the dirty dishes for them before finding their hands full with the task of supplying their raucous dinner guests with copious amounts of beer and wine.

 

Clarke had turned to put away the first round of dried dishes, just in time to catch Octavia’s calculative gaze fixed on her. The brunette had shaken the frown away, smiling at Clarke as she picked up the last of the drinks and exited the kitchen, calling out a reminder to wipe down the counter.

 

The blonde had returned to the sink, slowly picking up the dishtowel and a dripping dish from the rack.

 

“At least Lincoln skipped the lasagna this time,” Bellamy continued, turning the last plate under the steady stream of the tap. “That man is downright dangerous. Every time he gets behind the stove, I swear I gain at least five pounds.”

 

Clarke had laughed, but quickly cleared her throat. “Hey, what do you say about meeting to discuss… the plan.”

 

He’d cocked a brow at that, head angling to look down at her. “Whoa, princess — the _plan_? That’s your codename for it? Even the CIA couldn’t crack that.”

 

She’d rolled her eyes at that, bumping his hip with hers before setting another dry plate aside. “Lunch tomorrow?”

 

He’d grinned at her as he shook his head, nudging the tap off and reaching for another dishcloth to wipe off the counter with. “Lunch, princess.”

 

 

 

Clarke _definitely_ should have thought to ask Bellamy about wrapping up their little game the next day. She’d just had so many other things on her mind that the intention had escaped her by the time she’d opened her apartment door to find him on the other side, and failed to return as she greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek that she hadn’t thought twice about despite the obvious lack of other friendly presences. The easy conversation sparked by his teasing jab at her oversized knit sweater-and-sundress combo certainly hadn’t done anything to refresh her memory as they trudged down two floors of stairs and out into the April sunshine.

 

The arm he’d automatically wrapped around her shoulders as they made their way down the street hadn’t been much of an effective reminder; neither was the way they’d leaned into each other while waiting in line at the food truck, and again as they sat by the river with their lunch — burger for him, burrito for her, grease-stained hands taking turns to wave in the air expressively as they’d talked over heartily stolen bites of each other’s food.

 

She hadn’t thought much of it when he’d held out a hand to help her up twenty minutes after all the food had disappeared, or when he’d ripped their last paper napkin in half because the others had ended up along or in the river thanks to a particularly enthusiastic debate over Raven and Wick’s “relationship status” (as she’d grinningly called it, laughing at the groans he’d exaggerated despite the wide smile on his own face). She hadn’t thought much of it when he’d suggested they stop by the coffee shop on their way to meet the rest at Monty and Jasper’s place. She hadn’t thought much of it when she’d reached for his arm as they dumped their trash in a nearby bin and turned to leave the riverside.

 

She hadn’t thought much of anything the entire time, really. This was just their rhythm now, their flow. Friends were comfortable with casual physical contact. They were friends.

 

She _had_ , however, started to think something of it when they made to cross the street and his hand had found hers, engulfing it in a warm, firm grasp as he’d tugged her slightly to keep pace with his longer strides.

 

It had definitely helped to refresh her memory when they were safely on the other side of the road, and his hand made no move let go of hers.

 

Despite the sudden recall, the thought of pulling away had never crossed her mind, her fingers instead shifting to interlock with his for the rest of the way to the coffee shop.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Another week in, and it had suddenly dawned on Clarke that the “Mom-and-Dad”-ing had been slowly fizzling out.

 

She wondered if Bellamy had noticed.

 

She’d considered asking him about it the next day, even as they debated dinner plans via text message.

 

He’d walked through her door that night, weighed down with bags of Thai food. The welcome sight — and smell, for that matter — had instantly wiped her mind clean of anything irrelevant to the humming anticipation of pad thai, a snug couch and continuing their re-watch of Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Trilogy.

 

And, if anything, she had been far too absorbed in George Clooney and Brad Pitt to wonder why, long after the empty cartons had been cleared from her coffee table, they were still sitting ( _lying_ ) so close, despite the obvious absence of aggravating friends to antagonise. They were both tired, she’d reasoned absently as she rested her head on the space between his chest and shoulder, his arm tightening around her.

 

She’d smiled slightly as Matt Damon stammered his way through his lines. His breath had fallen warm upon her hair, and one of her legs had shifted to drape over one of his.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Eight days later, Octavia had turned up at the studio, a few minutes before Clarke’s lunch hour began. The blonde had smiled delightedly, excited at the prospect of spending some unexpected quality time with one of her best friends.

 

“God, it’s been _forever_ since I’ve had you all to myself,” she’d declared as the waitress removed their menus, reaching for her water glass. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Lincoln, he’s absolutely _perfect_. No, seriously—” she’d waggled her eyebrows deliberately, “—honey, anytime you’re ready to pass that on, I am _wide_ open.”

 

The laughing grin had dissipated slightly from the brunette’s face, her piercing eyes darting between Clarke’s. “Are you?”

 

Clarke had frozen in her seat, mid-gulp. “… Huh?”

 

Octavia had shrugged, leaning forward to rest her elbows along the table, her sharp gaze focused entirely on her lunch date. “ _Are_ you single, Clarke?”

 

Clarke’s eyebrows had drawn together above her persisting smile, glancing about the little bistro they’d chosen to lunch at in hesitation. “Uh — are you asking if I’m seeing anyone?”

 

“Actually, I’m asking if you’re dating one person,” Octavia had calmly explained, eyes perfectly clear save for the glint flashing in the sunlight that streamed in through the large glass windows.

 

The blonde had simply stared, no less confused than she’d been before. “O, I really don’t—”

 

“Are you and my brother serious?”

 

If it had been a bar stool she’d been sitting on, Clarke was pretty sure she would’ve fallen right off. “Seriously _what_?!”

 

The younger Blake had huffed, brushing her long dark locks out of her face. “Come on, babe. We all know by now.”

 

“Know _what_?” Clarke had demanded, the crease between her forehead deepening.

 

“We can be pretty annoying at times, but we’re not _idiots_ ,” Octavia had told her, one brow arching upwards as she surveyed her friend. “We know you were only trying to get back at us after we set you up with that whole celebration dinner fake-out.”

 

Clarke had leaned back from the table, a rueful smile pulling up the corners of her mouth. “You all deserved it.”

 

“Probably. But the fake-out’s long done, isn’t it?”

 

The smile on Clarke’s face had faded slightly. “You guys—”

 

Octavia had cut her off with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Not us. You and Bell.”

 

Clarke had shifted in her seat, extremely aware of how uncomfortable she suddenly felt on the hard chair. “What does that mean?”

 

Octavia had exhaled, rolling her eyes slightly before refocusing on Clarke’s frowning gaze. “Exhibit A: the wedding Saturday. Bell’s hand was practically glued to your waist the entire day, and those smiles were practically glued to both your faces for just as long.”

 

Clarke had started slightly at that, jerking forward. “Harper got _married_ , O. Were we _not_ supposed to be happy?”

 

“What’s the excuse for the hand, then?” Octavia had countered evenly. “Or the constant hanging out? The incessant texting? What about the too-long hugs, or the non-stop cheek kisses?”

 

Clarke had averted her gaze then. “We don’t—”

 

“Yes. You do.” There had been no anger in the petite brunette’s tone. No humour, either.

 

The ensuing silence had stretched on for about half a minute longer, and for the first time, Clarke had wished for an early end to her lunch hour.

 

The waitress had returned with their food then, cheerily bidding them to enjoy their lunch as she set the plates down and sailed away.

 

Octavia had cleared her throat and picked up her fork. “Look, Clarke — I’m not trying to scare you, and I’m sure as hell not trying to lecture you. It just feels like you _really_ need to have a conversation with my brother — a conversation both you and him have been far too content to put off for too long.” Her green eyes had lifted from her spaghetti to meet Clarke’s, fork paused mid-twirl. “Way, _way_ too long.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Two days later, she was barrelling through Bellamy’s door, held open by a freshly showered Bellamy, still massaging his wet curls with a towel.

 

“Couldn’t wait for me to come over, princess?” he’d asked with a smile, letting his door fall closed as he followed her back into his apartment.

 

She’d whirled around to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. This act, she’d immediately realised, was surprisingly hard to perform with tightly clenched fists, such as the ones she had balled her hands up into — a conscious reminder to fight off the automatic impulse to wrap her arms around him the second he opened the door.

 

“What the hell are we doing?” she’d blurted, immediately wincing inwardly at the unintentional harshness of her tone.

 

He’d recoiled slightly, all traces of laughter gone from his face. “What are we doing when?”

 

“Every time. _All_ the time!” She’d yanked her arms out of their tight fold, planting them on her hips instead. _Great, Griffin. Totally non-aggressive now._

 

He’d pulled the ends of the towel down taut, letting the fluffy material hang around his neck. “Gonna need a little more to go on, princess.”

 

She’d sucked in a breath then, ordering herself to calm down and _communicate, like a fucking functional **adult** goddammit. _ “Why are we always _touching_?”

 

_Ah, close enough._

He’d regarded her for a second, seemingly completely unfazed. “I’m guessing because… we want to?”

 

Her eyebrows had shot up at that, breath hitching as she blinked several times. “And—you’re _okay_ with that?”

 

He’d _stared_ at her, as if she’d just asked him if he was sure the sky was fucking blue. “… Yes?”

 

She’d gaped for a few seconds, before she suddenly snapped her jaw shut and stalked right up to him, hands flying to the sides of his face to pull him down for a hard kiss. He hadn’t missed a beat, his hands immediately finding her waist to pull her flush and firm against him as he bent over her, adjusting to meet her lips more fully. All her powers of conscious thought had blacked out for a moment when his tongue found its way into her mouth, suddenly overwhelmed by the sensation of being completely pressed up against him — a sensation she’d instantly realised was totally incomparable to the weeks of casual touches and comfortable stretches of contact. _Fuck,_ she had somehow managed to tell herself as she was being easily hoisted up off her feet, legs wrapping around his narrow hips as he held her to him. _No going back from **this**. _

 

And she didn’t want to, she’d decided as he dropped down onto his beat-up couch, allowing her to settle her knees on the lumpy surface before his hands tightened their grip on the backs of her thighs, sliding up to pull her closer by her ass. _Nope,_ she’d thought as her fingers dove enthusiastically into his hair, tangling into the damp curls to help them both adjust to the new angle. _Definitely don’t want to._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Clarke tossed a small handful of popcorn at the couple making out on the couch. “Gross,” she observed pleasantly, popping a couple kernels into her mouth as they separated immediately.

 

“No way, Griffin,” Raven leaned over a sheepishly beaming Wick to wag a long finger in the blonde’s direction. “ _You_ got your no-holds-barred PDA period with King Blake. _You_ don’t get to ruin anyone else’s.”

 

Clarke’s jaw dropped in mock indignation. “That’s not fair, we weren’t even _actually_ —”

 

She was promptly cut off by a series of loud groans from around the room and a retaliatory smattering of popcorn tosses from Octavia and Miller, sprawled out on the floor along with Lincoln and Monty. “Do we _really_ have to go through this again,” Octavia complained, eyes still glued to a bespectacled Daniel Radcliffe whizzing around on a broomstick onscreen.

 

“Go through what again?” Bellamy’s deep voice sounded, and Clarke jumped up to make room for him to sit on the armchair she’d been occupying.

 

“Mom insisting you guys totally weren’t married up until a few weeks ago,” Miller supplied helpfully as he accepted the fresh beer handed to him by his best friend.

 

Bellamy settled into the armchair, holding a second beer out of the way as Clarke climbed up to curl across his lap sideways. She wedged her popcorn bowl firmly into her own lap, knees hanging over one arm of the chair as Bellamy’s free arm moved to wrap around her tightly. “Speaking of, isn’t it about time we pass that whole Mom-and-Dad thing on to the newlyweds?” he asked, nodding towards Raven and Wick still snuggled up to each other on the couch before taking a swig from his bottle.

 

“Never!” Jasper singsonged cheerily as he reappeared with two large bowls of potato chips that were quickly handed off to Monty and Wick. “Ships come and go, but you guys will always be our one and only, our _Mom and Dad_.”

 

He beamed widely at the muffled groans emitting from the pair as he dropped back down into his seat next to Maya, who accepted the apple cider he held out to her with a radiant smile. “That’s so sweet of you guys,” she voiced to the room, but her sparkling gaze was fixed only on the shaggy-haired boy next to her.

 

Bellamy watched the two sneaking shy smiles at each other, one side of his mouth involuntarily tugging upwards as his arm tightened around Clarke of its own accord.

 

“Ten bucks says they’re official within two weeks,” she murmured lowly for his ears only, the amusement dancing in her eyes clear as day despite her feigned focus on the screen.

 

He grinned. “Twenty says one week.”

 

“Done.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> okay yes you caught me I JUST WANTED ANOTHER EXCUSE TO WRITE DOMESTIC!BELLARKE.
> 
> hope you guys liked this! feedback is always very, VERY appreciated =) every kudos/bookmark/comment is fanfic crack to me.
> 
> (by the way, y'all have no idea how badly i wanted to title this 'the parent trap'.)


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